


oh happy day

by MackerelGray



Series: dork detectives doing their best [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Sensory Overload, Swearing, aggressive sarcasm, enjoy?, something like the start of a panic attack, this is just 500-odd words of internal screaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 06:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MackerelGray/pseuds/MackerelGray
Summary: Oh, so this is auniquelyterrible morning! Got it. Fuck you.





	oh happy day

Sixty is so fucking done with today.

He woke up at four AM feeling like his skin was crawling. His systems were updating, so some discomfort was probably to be expected, but it didn't stop there, did it? Nooo, of course not, his sensors just _kept going,_ overworking, telling him everything was too hot or cold or pressed up against him, and he couldn't go back into stasis and keep updating so everything halted at seventy-six goddamn percent.

He tried though, he fucking _tried,_ for three hours, and it didn't work and he didn't go back to sleep and it's _shit._ It feels like his processors are frying from the number of backlogged commands trying to go through.

At seven AM his alarm goes off, and _that_ feels like a literal bullet to the brain. Auditory processors too, huh? _Really?_ Alright then. Great! Amazing! He can really feel the depth to everything today, it's _fantastic!_

Sixty grabs a denim jacket on his way out of the apartment. He regrets the decision when he puts it on and immediately feels like it's scratching at his skin. And he's already running late, so he can't go back to replace it, and it's cold outside so he can't just take it off, and god _fucking_ dammit. Sixty takes a minute to thoroughly curse himself out.

Not out loud though. Not because it would be rude, he's too frustrated to give a fuck about other people's opinions, but Detroit's loud enough as it is. Sixty usually walks to the DPD, crossing several streets, and they're actual hell today. The cars and buses and pedestrians are revving and screeching and honking and yelling and Sixty _really_ wants to scream at them all to shut up, except that would probably be the last straw for him sound-wise before he curls up in a sobbing ball, so keep on keeping on!

He hates everything right now. He really tries to show it. If he walks with murder in his eyes, fewer people will come near him, which means less noise and fewer accidental shoulder brushes and makes everything just a little bit easier to deal with.

Sixty forces himself to breathe as he enters the precinct. It's gotta be quieter inside, it's morning on a slow day in a fucking office environment.

He pushes the door open.

The coffee machine is running. It's really fucking loud.

Well.

Okay! That's fine! He's fine! Everything's going great! _Fucking hell-_

Murder walk. Just do it. Everything's fine.

It's really not.

Sixty gets to his desk just as his chest starts tightening and fuck no, _fuck_ this, it's too early for this panicky bullshit, he wants to stop _existing._

His chair squeaks when he sits down. Not helping, chair. Neither are Officers Brown and Mitchell, who Sixty can hear from across the room, and whose necks he would actually snap if it made them stop talking, but he can't do that because suddenly the room is spinning and he _hates this._

He puts his head on the desk and tries to shut everything out. Okay. Okay. Okay. _Breathe._ Y’know, like normal people. It’s _fine._

God, it’s not.


End file.
